#apprentice anatole

[tadbitfooled]

I wrote a post a few weeks ago about ways your muse could've met one of mine before the game BUT I have no idea where it went so we'll make a new, more organized post.

Tadpoled

Briza Jaelre

If you're a surface drow, it would be easier to have met her prior. She's the oldest child of the Jaelre family of her generation and has some good political standing due to that.

Also if your muse has been around the forest of Cormanthor, where the exiled House Jaelre has set up their home, your muse may have run into her while she's been patrolling. Or even have done trade with her house if your muse is from that area.

Also I could see some parties or something happening where it's forging alliances with the surfacers and showing the house Jaelre isn't as cutthroat as the Lolth sworn drow. (But they aren't afraid to get their hands messy.)

Durante Faust

He's been an apprentice to a sculptor since he was a teenager. He easily could've tagged along when his master was doing a commission.

Then there's also the fact he'd also eventually start getting his own commissions, especially because he does have an almost unnatural skill in his work. (It is really life like, and no not due to magic, just talent.)

He is the most likely person your muse could've had a random one night stand with at one point. So there's also fun in that. Or he could have wooed and ran, that is also a possibility.

Frits Farehill

He is 35 and attended Blackstaff; he could easily be someone's former classmate/peer.

I accidentally made him really good as a possibly bg person for Ga.le just because his parents also own a flower shop in Waterdeep and the prior bullet point.

Frits has 11 siblings so maybe your muse may know him through a sibling

Frits does a lot of traveling for his research with his partner, so it's very easy to have crossed paths with him before, even just for a short while.

Gwenifar van Hol

Gwenifar's been around with her duties as a cleric. From dealing with plagues and illnesses to helping tend to people in battle. She's quite adept at her healing and making healing potions and salves, so she's been requested to travel to quite a few places in Faerun.

Beyond that, in recent years, she's helped raise funds for the Open Hand Temple by attending various get togethers of the well-to-do, having gained a bit of charisma as she's gotten older. So she does often interact with Baldur's Gate's elite, as well as tend to those in need in the city.

Talilah Bluethorn

She has traveled all around Faerun, helping her mother steal from the rich and give to the poor. She's also been on a few adventures besides that, so there's some options there.

Your muse, if they're a high elf from Evereska, might even not know her but know her father, who she has a strong resemblance to. Which could be fun.

Also if your muse is rich, maybe she and her fellows stole from them that'd be a great dynamic.

Tavinkas

He's a durge so like. He's traveled around Faerun but to kill people. What if he killed someone your muse cared about. what if.

Also other cultists and that who would work with Bhaalists, that's another way to have met him prior to the game.

Camp Followers

Anatol Byron

Look, this guy has been looking to create a heroic name for himself, being the third son of a noble family. He feels it's his destiny to do something heroic, he's got a good heart but uh. Sometimes not so bright.

Also as being the third son of a noble family, there are options of arranged marriage plots, meeting at revelries, or other type settings.

Kyrirthlila Bluethorn

Like with her daughter, she's been stealing from well-to-do for about 250 years. So that's a way to have met her prior. Also has had her own adventures and that, so that's something to consider too.

Background

Aella Dekarios

You might know her if your muse is from Waterdeep. She's part of a traveling minstrel group and they tour all around Faerun too. She's had her adventure here and there.

Also you're more than welcome to want to be her wife with two kids, I left it vague just in case anyone wants to be Ga.le's in-law.

Arakhivaen Saliriador

One of the harder muses. His mother is on the royal council of Evermeet, and he's a guard in Evereska. But if your muse is a high elf noble, then that would be the easiest way to have met him before, considering there's The Retreat that happened and it's only in recent years high elves are coming back to the mainland.

If you do have an older muse, though, Arakhivaen might have had more to do with interacting with wider Faerun before The Retreat (about 150 ish years ago).

Arzan Ancunin

He's a second gen, so there's no meeting him prior to the game, unless there's some wild time travel set up. But there's still options to pre-establish a relationship for interactions. Considering he's a dhampir looking for a cure for vampirism for his father, something beyond the options available that can do a mass cure. OR you go the ascended route and he's trying to stop his father.

Chiela Ancunin

Another difficult one due to The Retreat, but she was around Baldur's Gate prior to it. Tended to her brother's grave and all that. Not to mention I hc their parents were very much ladder climbing lower noble/upper middle class, so there's something to play with as well.

Obviously wildly easier if your muse is a high elf who can go to Evereska/Evermeet.

Ingeleif Maerklos

Went to Blackstaff, is 36. 100% is an arrogant piece of work.

if your muse is from Waterdeep, they should know the Maerklos family. As a noble, he's probably had his interactions at parties and get togethers. Maybe even arranged marriage discussions before he became a Chosen of Mystra.

As a Chosen of Mystra, he has had to go in search of ways to strengthen the Weave after the events in recent history. So your muse could've met him on a quest.

Klaudius Sarrick

He's a wealthy man leading a double life in Baldur's Gate. He's very used to interacting with high society in balls and that sort of thing.

But also other cultists who would work with a Loviat.an.

Perun Dekarios

He works as adventurer; probably if your muse is an adventurer, could've met him. Also he's very social and very charming, easily could've charmed his way into a well-to-do party (although the Dekarios family is a decently well off clan in my opinion.)

Also left his wife and three kids vague in case anyone wants to be Ga.le's in-law

[shades-o-grey]

AAAAAH!

Sorry got excited - yes! I ALSO HAVE THIS!

My casting looks like this at the moment.

Jeeves = Sofie, Wooster = Howl,

Aunt. Dahlia = Sullivan

A.Agatha = Witch of the Waste.

Mabel = Lettie.

Macintosh = Hin,

Biffy = Turnip Head.

Calcifer = Anatole (subject to change)

The rest will occur to me eventually I guess.

Agatha, being the witch of the waste, is after Bertie's heart so she can hand it over to whatever woman she wants him to mary.

Bertie is avoiding Dahlia a-la Sullivan because he doesn't want to get caught up in her schemes.

Don't know who'd make a good Marco - (or calcifer really maybe calcifer will just be calicifer) Maybe Bingo who's just hanging around with the excuse of being an 'apprentice'.

anyone else fw the jeeves and wooster howl’s moving castle au

[vampiresuns]

Anatole’s Apprentice Prologue, Interlude 1: Do Not Stand Over My Grave And Weep, Part 3

✴︎ PART 3: LEAVES FROM THE VINE ✴︎

3.8k words. In which everyone has to confront something they lost.

CW: Recollections of mild violence towards the end.

Characters featured: Cassiopeia Cassano, Consul Valerius/Valeriy Radošević -Cassano, Louisa De Silva, Aelius Anatole

Lore guide: ‘Toly’ and ‘Lily are nicknames the R-C use for Anatole. ‘Lily’ comes from Little; “Up the steps” is Vesuvian slang for rich people/people who live in the Heart district; “Chainmails” is slang for the Guards

What to catch up with Anatole’s Apprentice series? You can do that here.

With this piece, Anatole’s apprentice adventures end, for now. Thank you very much for reading about them ♥

Two voices spoke in within his darkened bedroom in the Palace as Anatole slowly came back from his fainting episode. How embarrassing. It had been at least a year since the last time he passed out because of a poorly attended migraine, but he would take fainting in public before riling himself up into a panic attack.

He began to stir himself awake, feeling the after effects of the migraine still in his temples.

The voices did not go; they were in the room then. He didn’t want to alert them of his rousing, but the more he tried to make out what they were saying, the more obvious it was to him he needed fresh air and a gallon of water. He made a vexed, pitiful sound as he tried to sit on the bed and the room around him went quiet.

“It is better if I left,” one of the voices said.

“The least you could do—”

“Don’t tell me how to handle this Cassiopeia—”

Cassiopeia snorted. “You handling anything would be the real surprise here.”

“You have no idea what I’m going through, so why don’t you keep your opinions to yourself?”

Recognition danced around Anatole as he feared the owner of the voice would slam the door shut. By the whisking sound of cut air, he was about to, but decided against it on the last minute. Anatole felt eyes on him, but when he tried to turn to look, all he could see was the door closing very carefully, with a quiet click. If Anatole was more awake he’d say it sounded like someone who didn’t want to leave. He wasn’t, however, so instead he focused on sitting up.

The voice that stayed, Cassiopeia, brought a chair close to Anatole’s bed, the legs of it scraping against the floorboards. She was a handsome woman, with a wide smile, deep brown skin with a bronze undertone; had there been more light in the room, Anatole would’ve been able to see the freckles on her face very much resembled his own. She had expressive eyebrows, and her tight curls were put together in an up-do, with jewellery accents clipped on the side of her head. 

Anatole recognised her as the woman he had seen in an echo the day he arrived at the palace, the one wrapping her arm around a younger version of himself in encouragement. She had looked happier there; now she looked tired behind her welcoming, warm, smile.

She offered him water. “I figured you would like something to drink, does this happen often?”

Anatole accepted the drink, taking tiny sips from it. “It hasn’t happened in a while. I live with it just fine, most of the time…” 

“There’s no need to be embarrassed. Now, I’m not trying to trespass any boundaries, so you don’t need to explain anything you don’t want to, Toly— I mean, Dear, but if this happened to my daughter, or say, a nephew of mine, I would ask them if there’s any medicine I could procure for them.”

“How did you just call me?”

“Hm? ‘Dear’, is that alright by you?”

“No, you called me ‘Toly’. My, I know... there was someone who called me that, but I can’t remember.”

Cassiopeia acted none the wiser. “Dear, you’ll make yourself indisposed once again.”

Anatole stared at her, until he begrudgingly accepted his defeat and drained his glass. “You needn’t worry, I promise I can handle it myself, I’ve already interrupted you enough.”

She insisted, her voice resonating with fondness Anatole didn’t know how to receive. “I know you can, but I care, we care. The Council is at your disposition, you know? Even if the Consul—”

Anatole grimaced as he remembered his confrontation with him. It had gone the opposite of how he wanted to. Running his hands through his face, he groaned into them, though he soon regretted it as the sound didn’t please his headache. “The Countess is going to be so angry at me.”

“I don’t think she will, and either way, I would gladly vouch for you. He shouldn’t have done that, even if he’s carrying a terrible weight, it was wrong,”

she paused, looking towards the curtained windows, focusing on a tiny beam of light that came when the outside breeze moved the drapes. “I closed them for you, I didn’t know if light was something you’d appreciate it or not right now. Would you like me to open them?”

“Please. Sunlight makes me feel better.”

Anatole thought he heard her say that she knew it did, but he didn’t acknowledge it, suspecting Cassiopeia would deny it again.

 “I’m not trying to justify my cousin, but Valeriy has been through a lot lately. He isn’t the same man he was four years ago, and the Gods know we have our hands tied.”

As recognition dawned on him, his headache became worse. It moved right between his eyes, a piercing pain accompanied by the laughter of a child hanging from a tree branch as they threw themself into the arms of a man with long, soft hair.

He hissed in pain and before he could stop her, Cassiopeia was preparing him a migraine tonic. Later, when Anatole was left alone once again, he would realise he never had to explain to her his late Aunt Paris’ recipe for migraine tonics. Cassiopeia already knew it.

Right then, however, the knowledge slipped from his mind.

Before he could strain himself any further, Cassiopeia told him to lie back and drink his medicine, compelling him to rest. Anatole insisted it was fine after taking all of the concoction with one swift chug. 

“I’m used to it. I promise it’s fine. Asra has always been there for me since this happened to me,” he said with a vague hand gesture, avoiding any further explanation about his memory loss, migraines were safe enough, memory loss? He wasn’t sure. “But I’ve also been well, mostly on my own. With Antu. Asra does what he can and we fend for each other.”

Anatole petted Antu’s fur; Cassiopeia told him the Raccoon, whom she affectionately called “little beast” refused to leave his side.

They sat in silence as the tonic began working it’s magic, until a sob came out of Cassiopeia. She promptly excused herself, trying to calm down. Anatole was almost reminded of himself and the echo of a woman about his age, that looked a lot like Cassiopeia only both her eyes were green. Her name danced in the tip of his tongue.

“You don’t know who I am, do you?”

“No,” Anatole apologised.

“That is most alright, you ought not to apologise, Anatole. I am Cassiopeia Cassano, councilwoman of this City, and know that if you ever find yourself in need of a friend, I am here for you.”

Cassiopeia looked at him with sorrow. He could feel it too, inside himself, as something told him these people had once been very important to him but remained unable to recall how, why or when. Not knowing was going to drive him crazy, so against his common sense telling him not to do things that would make his headache worse, he asked:

“The person who was with you when I was waking, was it… was it the Consul?”

She hesitated.

“Yes, that was Consul.”

Anatole felt like he did after he had talked to Asra in the fountain and that man had called his name — those feelings of sorrow and disconnection taking hold of him again, as whatever had happened to him slipped through his fingers once more. “I knew him, didn’t I? I knew both of you.”

“I shouldn’t,”

“Cassiopeia, please. He looks like me when I’m angry, and, and I keep seeing echoes of myself when I was younger, a being younger that I don’t remember, but you’re both always with me and we look—”

“Happy?”

“Proud. I walked into the Palace and everyone knows my name, but acts like I shouldn’t be here and I saw you both walking me in and you looked so, so proud of me. This is not the first time I’ve had a dèja vú like that.”

“We were” she said with a defeated sigh, tears once again threatening to overflow her waterline. “When it came to the Court, you were our rising sun.”

Cassiopeia stood up. “You ought to rest, I have talked too much. I’m sorry, I know how much you hate not knowing but I need some answers for myself, too.”

He didn’t know what had compelled him to speak, which he was used to by now even if he hated it —he liked knowing what was about to come out of his mouth, thank you very much. He didn’t regret it, though, because he could tell Cassiopeia wouldn’t think ill of it, nor use it against him.

Anatole could do little more than thank her, taken aback with the intensity and sincerity of her words. Yet, despite her original word, Cassiopeia betrayed herself and said:

“Is there anything else you almost remember?”

“So many things I cannot name, nor place, nor put to shape. How am I supposed to carry out an investigation, if I myself barely know where I came from?”

Councilwoman Cassano walked back to the side of Anatole’s bed like he was on fire and she had to put him out. Forgoing the chair completely, she kneeled by the bedside and took his hands in hers. She was crying now; Anatole found himself crying to.

“The moment you feel overwhelmed you stop me, is that clear Young Man? Good. Your name is Aelius Anatole Radošević De Silva, you were born in Bgraz, in the Federative District of Ilvaska, in Balkovia, during a Civil War. Your family is as Blakovian as it is Vesuvian, but also have blood from the Alzoreños because that is where your mother was born. And you will be able to do this because you’re not alone, and because we will not leave you alone, and because you have always, always found your way.”

She left the room shortly after, leaving Anatole to realise that his name on her lips felt the same way it felt when Asra said it: full of sorrow but also full of love. Nadia arrived not five minutes after, so Anatole would have to think about that later. 

Cassiopeia couldn’t go home yet, she had worked to do. She did try to find Medea, but she was nowhere to be found. She remembered her and Anatole were almost attached at the hip when he had first been alive, so perhaps she would know something. Some dreadful feeling found its way to her gut, because that was indeed her nephew, the one who had died. She knew it in her heart, she knew it like she’d known the guidance of the Moon and the protection of the Sun.

She didn’t know enough about resurrections and necromancy, but Valerian did. She’d have to speak with the old Cassano patriarch as soon as she was home, maybe he’d know what to do, and it would all sort itself out. For now, though, she continued her day knowing that at the very least, her wonderful nephew was alive. 

At the other side of the City, Doctor Louisa De Silva was going through her day. It was one of those days when she simply had to move, unable to tolerate being cooped up inside. Seeing people, talking to people, anything to feel like a real human again.

She had to admit those weren’t the only reasons. Walking and running errands helped her think, and she had much to think about.

Amparo was hiding something from them. Call it motherly intuition on Louisa’s part, but she knew she was. She might be depressed, and she might have been incredibly absent from the world around her for longer than a year after Anatole had died, but Louisa had never been stupid. She had suspected it for a while, snippets of conversation and certain behaviours drawing her attention. Then, Antu had gone missing almost permanently and whenever he came back, the raccoon seemed oddly chiper. Too chiper for a creature that had been wallowing in it’s own sorrow. 

Then, certain things went missing from Anatole’s rooms. Books, clothes, quills, beddings, his harp. How Amparo had managed to relocate it without anyone noticing, Louisa didn’t know, but she knew her son’s harp was gone and it seemed suspicious that both Amparo and Valerian had had an explanation for it. Lastly, there was the issue of Vlad having claimed to see Anatole two days ago. 

Louisa knew about magic like one knew of history. While she could’ve learnt, she had never felt the need: Paris was the magician out of the two of them, and there was always Vlad, even if, as an alchemist, his tether to magic was different than for most people’s. Be that as it may, Vlad had been “seeing” their son for a while now, even if recently it had stopped. It began with sleepwalking, Vlad covering lengths of the Palazzo, because ‘Anatole needed him’.

Once he made it to the street, crumbling when he was told what he had done. He thought he was losing his mind, something Louisa understood. Nothing would ever compare to the pain of losing Anatole, but Vlad’s sleep walking seemed like a cruel twist of the universe. Her husband acted as if compelled, saying he could hear Anatole in his dreams, needing to go find him, because his boy needed him. Louisa thought it was just nightmares at first. Now, she wasn’t so sure. 

Someone bumped into her in the South End apothecary she was in, pulling her out of her thoughts. 

There were plenty of Apothecaries around Vesuvia of varying qualities and exclusivity, though Dr. De Silva had her favourites, this being one of them. Today it was particularly busy, the humdrum and talk in both accented common, and half-and-half (the way Vesuvians called the back and forth change between Dialect and Common tongue) hitting her with full force now that she had become aware of them, people’s voices around her and the sounds from the streets no longer white noise. 

A middle aged lady was gossiping with another of the Apothecary’s clients. 

“So I told the wife, you wouldn’t believe whom I saw Maz’ Ilya with, and bet you what, she didn’t believe me. Remember the Radošević boy?”

“Who?”

“You know, the Cassano’s blond new blood, whatever was his name… the one who worked with Mr. Stick-up-the-ass— Councilwoman Cassano’s nephew, you know the one… Aleli, Anar??”

“Anatole?”

“That’s the boy!”

“Are you sure you weren’t drunk? He’s fucking dead.”

“Tell you he isn’t! He’s alive as the two of us, walking around with Ilya D—”

“Don’t say his name, you idiot.”

“No one’s listening, relax, anyway— he was walking around with… you know, just like they did before the plague. I know surviving that made us all a little loose up here, but I know what I saw. Alive as you and me, I tell you. Nothing mortal can kill the bastards they said, and I’m starting to believe it.”

“And what? You’re going to tell me you reached the fucking Cassano so you knew him personally, and that’s why you’re so sure? They’re better than most of that lot, but they left the ‘Grave long ago. You’re imagining things.”

“Listen, my brother knew him. I described the guy to him, and he said that was either Aelius Radosevic or someone who looked a lot like him. He’d know what I was talking about, he’s part of the union—”

“You know the ‘Nothing mortal can kill a Cassano’ is just a saying right? They’d have to be witches or something.”

“How do you know they aren’t?”

“How do you know a dead man went around walking?”

“I bet he was never dead, and they had to hide him from the Goat voiced fuck we had for a Count.”

“Take out the ‘o’ and you’re spelling him right out. If you were in the Raven you were drunk as hell, am willing to bet. No other witnesses, I fucking bet.”

“The chainmails got in, the bird sang.” 

“Of course, Tilde,” the person the lady, Tilde, was talking to said. “Tell you what, if the man’s alive I’ll eat my shoe, but be ready to take a fall about that because I am willing to bet he was just like every other Up the Steps bastard in the end, if he is in fact alive. Chickened out, like his coward uncle and—”

“Hey!” Louisa yelled. If she didn’t startle herself with the volume of her own voice, it was only out of how angry she was, the more she heard this person go on. “That’s my son you’re talking about. Anatole was my son.”

She acted on impulse, anxiety and anger making her blood shake and her pulse rise up. There was a lot she could understand from others, but not this. Not the defamation of her son’s character, not when Anatole had given his life away for Vesuvians, not when Anatole had arrived shaken and yelled at by the Courtiers so many times, not when she could remember how his shoulder bled that one time Pontifex Vulgora dug their gauntlets on his skin. 

Not when Lucio’s neglect had murdered her son. She had already lost enough to tyrants to withstand this. 

The shop around her went quiet as the middle aged lady recognised her. 

“You’re Doctor De Silva! You’re that woman who—”

The person she had been speaking to before interrupted her. “Was he? So is he dead or is he alive?”

Louisa’s reply died in her mouth. Did she really know the answer? She thought she did. She thought that awful letter from the nurses of the Lazaret had been enough proof of the death of her son, but if he was alive, then how? Anatole would never run away, she knew her son, running away from love and duty was not something her son would ever do.

Something broke inside of her as she remembered how Anatole had fit between her arms. Angry, hot tears began rolling down her cheeks. Whatever way she looked, it made the person backtrack. 

“Lady, are you okay?”

“What kind of question is that? How dare you offer me pity after you have the audacity to speak of my son that way. You should have more respect for those who gave their lives to save others amid the Red Plague.”

“Oh, is this about gratitude? Isn’t it always with you high and mighty bastards?”

“Hey!” Someone else intervened. “The Cassano are on our side, and you know that, leave the Doctor alone, she heals our children for free. Aren’t you going to apologise?”

“No,” the person said. 

“I don’t need them too,” Louisa added, shooting them a deadly glare before turning to the other lady, Tilde. “You must have been mistaken, my son is very much dead and buried in the Lazaret, but it is nice to know someone still thinks about him.”

“I don’t mean to poke, but are you sure, Miss? There’s talk about him working directly for the Countess now, so it made sense to me. About your height, scar over his nose, looks a lot like the Consul and a lot like you too. Same front teeth.”

The other person scoffed again. “You saw his teeth now?”

“Shut up,” Louisa barked at them. “Sorry, Tilde, you might be mistaken.”

“I know I’m not, you should look into it, Miss. Ask my brother about it, he has a shop three streets down.”

As the argument ended, the shop’s awkward silence gave way to the same humdrum as before. Louisa received her order and left the place, not without stealing a look at Tilde’s direction, who was offering some leeches to the Apothecary to examine. They swung their head towards Louisa, making Tilde turn: with her thumb, she pointed left, in the direction Louisa could only assume was her brother’s shop. With so many things in her life, Louisa’s body knew what the right thing to do was before her brain could catch up, and only like a mother who knew the right way to love her child could, she asked on every shop three blocks to the left of the Apothecary until she found Tilde’s brother. 

Amparo would have so much explaining to do. 

* * *

He no longer knew who he was. After Amparo came forward to all her family and his nephew’s friends, per theirs, Milenko’s, Cassiopeia’s and Louisa’s insistence, he had seen Milan summon Asra Al-Nazar from the pond in the Winter Garden. Well, not “summon”, that was a strong word, but rather called, and Al-Nazar had answered. 

He had to listen to them confirm what he had been dreading: that the apparition in the shape of his Anatole, the one he had thrown wine to under the hawke-like gaze of the rest of the Courtiers, and who then had confronted him, knowing information about Valeriy who no one outside their family knew, was not an apparition. He wasn’t witchcraft. He was real. Real as they all were.

Asra Al-Nazar, against everything Valeriy thought the magician would consider forbidden, made a deal with an entity to give half his heart to Anatole, so he could live once again. The cost had been his memories, locked away deep down into himself. 

Yet, Asra had crumbled into Milenko’s arms as he explained how somehow he remembered, but he couldn’t make him remember. “I only make it worse,” he had said. 

Instead of staying in the room, Valeriy had walked away. When there was nothing more to say and Cassiopeia asked him if he saw it now, he had felt his throat close. As fast as he could he got away from the scrutinising weight of his family, as the man he used to be and he had wanted to bury resurfaced. 

Valeriy Radošević had begun agonising with his nephew’s death. The last tendrils of control he had slipped away. So when the Devil offered him a way out after years of looking at him over the shoulder, waiting for him in the lonesome hours and cold dead-ends, he had struck the final blow to the man his family expected him to be, and the uncle whom Anatole had once loved.

He had always been a difficult man, but what he had become now, if his family knew… they would never forgive them. It seemed easy before, when Anatole was dead: what a better way to self-destruct, what a better way for his life to slowly end. Let the grief that had always been part of him eat him up and spit back the cruel carcass of the monster he was starting to become. 

Now, as the realisation that Anatole was indeed alive, Valerius realised this mask he had crafted for years, the mask which was nothing but the coffin of the man he once could’ve been, was starting to break. Out of it, Valeriy Radosevic began to resourface, like an overflowing well, a spring, or a reminder of dawn. 

Did you name yourself after the Sun?

Yes, Uncle Val. Do you think it’s fitting?

Very much so, Lily, darling. You’re my favourite sunrise.

He found an empty remote room, slamming the door behind him. In the room there was a mirror and when Valeriy looked into his own reflection, he didn’t see his eyes but Matilda Cassano’s. Instead of the sandy-grey eyes he had inherited from one of his grandparents, he saw the unforgiving yellowish of his dead biological mother. 

Though he was four when she died, part of him could remember enough: the abandonment and the constant tension between Matilda, Valerian and Iovanus, or between Matilda and Mircea and Florentino. The former was a Radošević, the brother of Matilda’s husband, Valeriy’s biological father, Kresmir. The latter was a Cassano, Matilda’s first cousin. They had married each other and only a year older than Matilda herself, had stepped up where Vlad’s and Valeriy’s biological parents had failed. 

Though he was four when both of them died, he knew enough. The cruelty, the anger in his brother’s eyes. His brother, the father of his nephew, had taken better care of him as a baby than his parents ever did. If Valeriy had survived during his first infancy when no other adults were around, it was because of Vladislav and Vladislav alone. 

In the mirror, a cruel half-ram creature with the eyes of his mother smiled back at him. It spoke back to him in his own voice: “Proud, at last, of what you chose to become?”

Valeriy took his hands to his face and so did the creature. While he only touched his soft, human skin, the monster in the mirror touched fur. Making himself of the first blunt object he could reach, he threw it to the mirror and as it broke, he broke down with it. 

[the-melting-world]

1 for the kisses prompts?

Hi!!! Hope you don’t mind me borrowing Anatole for this one!

1. Small kisses littered across the other’s face.

“Helianthus. The common sunflower. Do you know why they call it so?”

Kipling was startled by how close the customer came to her face as he studied the large vase of sunflowers on display. 

“Uh,” Kip stammered, “n-no actually.”

Once she collected herself, she couldn’t help but notice how much the customer himself resembled a sunflower. From the way his sunlit tresses cascaded from a dark crown, to the way his eyes followed her reaction like a blossom tracking the daylight.

Kipling didn’t know what it was about his face that drew her in, but he was close enough to kiss. As soon as she did — right on the nose — she regretted it, because what kind of business owner kisses their customers for no apparent reason?

Kip opened her mouth to apologize, but the customer grinned lazily and placed a finger on her nose.

“Oh no. Don’t you dare think about apologizing until you finish what you started.”

Kipling chuckled, glad that this walking sunflower had a sense of humor. Then she moved a lock of hair behind his ear and followed up with a kiss to his cheekbone. Then his jaw, the bridge of his nose, his chin. She peppered in as many as she could.

[kidgrimm]

Colored versions of Gender switched julian and alice- i mean Julia and Alister.

[froyofam]

@sunrisenfool had a birthday like...a while ago, as did his sunman character Anatole and I am suuuuuper late with the art for it. But now it is done! So happy birthday, Jules and Nana!

[sunsetsor]

"If Sesame wants to Robin Hood his way into Vesuvia, who am I to stop him" — Anatole 🌞

“Nana, I’m all for spreading wealth around to the people of Vesuvia, but please don’t encourage him. I’m pretty sure he’s wanted in at least four different cites by now. I don’t need him to be wanted here too. I can only distract Lucio from his missing jewels for so long.”

[starryskylullaby]

doing some warmups and wanted to draw some other apprentices i’ve been meaning to for aaages

anatole is @sunrisenfool callie is @biakela dkjfdhsf i’m sorry this is outta nowhere and also they probably look rly off but i swear i’ll draw them again i love these two ; o;

[lazaretflowers]

a quick doodle of @sunrisenfool ‘s apprentice Anatole and my apprentice Vishal they’re very gay and i love them both so much ;0;

It was soft mornings like these that Vishal had always dreamed of. Waking up with Anatole in his arms, knowing he was there, he was safe, that Anatole loved him. It made his cheeks flush even now and he snuggled in closer, hiding his face against the crook of Anatole’s neck. 

Vishal had been such a fool for waiting so long... He thought that he’d never get another chance at this. But here he was. Anatole was alive and warm and curled up against Vishal’s chest. They were together...

Anatole began to stir and yawned, slowly moving to sit up. Vishal didn’t let go though. How could he when he finally got his dream? He hummed gently, keeping his eyes closed as he held Anatole. 

The man laughed shyly, his own cheeks starting to blush, “Vishal... I need to get dressed.”

“No... five more minutes?” Vishal murmured as he started to press kisses to Anatole’s neck. He wasn’t going to let Nana go.

Anatole smiled a little more, leaning into the soft kisses. “I suppose five minutes couldn’t hurt.” He mused.

 They both knew in their hearts, though, that five minutes would turn into hours. Their hearts swelled with happiness when they were together. Vishal couldn’t stop smiling and Anatole wanted to hold Vishal forever. When they were with each other it was like the rest of the world had fallen away. It was only them, curled up together in Vishal’s cottage finally together. They could save the world tomorrow because in that moment it was only them.

[kaiasinclair]

@sunrisenfool

I'm writing a little introductory of how Ajii would meet Anatole.

Ajii: hey...sun.

Anatole: sun?

Ajii: Yes. Your beauty is like the sun because it blinds me as I look upon you.

Anatole: QLDNDJASKLDMF

[stellesappho]

commissions for @sunrisenfool  💛 

[atypicalacademic]

Provenance

(A/N: Thank you So Much for letting me Do This I- I’m also fucking around with form and finding out. Also I will lay down and die for Earth x Sun dynamnics in case you could not tell-)

Haider Wazim x Aelius Anatole from @sunrisenfool

Words: 1.5k

*

Provenance (n) :  The beginning of something's existence; something's origin.

*

Anatole remembers the first time he’d kissed Haider. The sound of music muted in the hall outside, the cold touch of metal bangles against his waist, the scent of flowers, and henna, and something else he couldn’t place- and the look in Haider’s mahogany eyes as he pulled back to catch his breath-

“Your hair’s the color of sunshine, Anatole.”

A beat of silence, veering to apology, a furious flush staining Haider’s bronze cheeks crimson. “Not the time?”

Anatole laughed, and kissed him again.

*

He always lingered outside the door to Anatole’s office, waiting for the needle to inch towards five-thirty on the dot. Not a moment too early, not a moment too late, and never in a hurry. It was just how Haider liked it.

When he knocked, the door swung open, and Haider stepped in, the tinkle of his anklets and the scent of bauhinias signaling his arrival.

“I could set my clock by your timing, Haider.” Anatole looked up from his desk with a smile. Resting his quill, he got to his feet, dark brown eyes sparkling as he took Haider in, in that particular, carefully obvious way that never failed to make him blush.

He’d anticipated that look when he’d hastened to freshen up after he’d closed up the restaurant, pinning fresh flowers into his hair, a new, beige silk scarf around his broad shoulders, a few more bangles to clink at his wrists.

“Hello,” was all Haider could manage to say, the breath leaving his body in a rush.

*

The next time, he was calmer, their fingers barely touching as they walked together.

Anatole realized that Haider wore his magic like he wore his kindness- on his sleeve, in his heart, in his smile, clinging to him like the scent of his perfume, open and honest and welcoming. The air brightened with it- the plants in the gardens always straightened when Haider walked past them, tender leaves unfurling when he brushed his hand over them.

Something in his heart unfurled with it.

*

Anatole never said a word he didn’t mean.

“This is lovely,” he reached up on tiptoes to tap at Haider’s windchimes, smiling at the silver song of it.

“This too,” he ran his fingers over the flowers he’d painted on to the walls. Outside, the clamor of Haider’s guests for the weekend- his house was never empty- slowed to a murmur. “And this,” he took Haider’s hand, pressing his lips to the henna-butterflies at his fingertips.

He spoke with conviction enough that Haider could see the soft contours of that word curl in the air between them- colored like the blaze of sunrise- he felt it glow in the palm of his hand like a firefly, feel it press warm against his chest-

Damn him, must Nana always delight in seeing him blush and stutter?

And if he never said a word that he didn’t mean-

“Is this okay?” Haider asked him, his palm pressed to the tattoo over Anatole’s heart.

“Yes,”

“And this?” He wound his arms around Anatole’s waist, pulled him to his lap.

“Yes-“ Dark eyes fluttered shut.

“I want to paint flowers all over you.” Haider paused, and winced. “I’m-“

“Don’t be.” Anatole sighed, his fingers tangling in Haider’s black hair. “Don’t be sorry.”

Okay. Okay. Okay.

Haider felt the weight, and clammy undercurrent of anxiety, lift off his shoulder.

Don’t be sorry.

Okay.

Touch me.

Okay.

*

“And now you garnish it.”

He added flakes of chocolate to the freshly baked cake, blowing gently over it when he cut off a slice, smooth and practiced, to offer it to Anatole. “Careful,” he murmured, his eyes widening at Nana’s eagerness.

“I’m not much of a baker, I’m afraid-“

“Not much of a baker?” Anatole asked weakly, nearly light-headed from the rush of flavor and softness and the crumble, the touch of caramel- “What are you talking about?”

Haider laughed. “Okay, I’m a better cook than I am a baker.”

“Am I invited to see for myself?” He mumbled past another mouthful of cake.

“Oh-“ Haider brightened, no, bloomed, grinning from ear to ear as though the treat was his. “Anytime.”

*

He never came in empty-handed. There was something, always- a snack, a meal, a pot of coffee, always laced with his magic. He never appeared without the questions, either- asked almost out of habit.

“Have you eaten?”

“You look like you’ve been sitting there for hours- d’you want a massage?”

One time, uncharacteristically, Haider had been in a rush to get dressed, pulling his scarf over himself and tugging on his shoes.

“Are you sure you’re not staying for coffee?” Anatole frowned.

“Can’t.” He slid his bangles past his wrists, giving Nana an apologetic glance. “I promised the kids I’ll fly kites with them before sunset.”

The kids. The horde of small mischief-makers who clung to him on weekends, at his restaurant’s closing hour, demanding snacks and playtime.

Anatole couldn’t resist teasing a little. “And they can’t wait?”

“Nana!” Haider stared at him, scandalized. “I can’t break a promise!”

*

Anatole had once read that green magic builds over time to rest with the practitioner’s body- years upon years of caring and tending and creating imprinting calluses and waves of energy that had by now become Haider’s own.

It was a thing to be earned, and no matter how much it had been taught and principled into him, to care was to choose- and often to choose goodness. He knew that more often than not, it was not a choice made in lightness.

Anatole found himself wanting to lean into that warmth, touch it, hold it, and return it.

*

Haider did not read poetry.

Metaphors were beyond him- and a code beyond those of colors and measures and precision made him lose footing in the slip-slide of words.

Aarcha, however, did.

Anatole did too.

He ignored the sly look Aarcha gave him when he pocketed the tiny volume from her shelf, a Zadithi poet, she told him, in translation. The book was only a little larger than his palm, and he lay awake at night flipping aimlessly through it until he founda verse that caught his eye.

To the Sun.

His heart squeezed in his chest, and he couldn’t stop the smile that tugged at his lips.

Today when I think of storms, I only think of them breaking-

Golden and gracious against the damp earth on the morning of its ceasing-

I borrow time from the folds of your laughter

I float on its wave like a kite to tomorrow-

The promise of you undoes the night.

I let you fill the silver cracks between sleep and waking with sunflowers-

He couldn’t read any more. Haider’s throat closed, and he buried his burning face into the pillow like a lovesick teenager.

*

Anatole crossed the space between them, and instinctively, Haider wrapped his arms around him, holding him close, one arm around his waist and the other curled tenderly at the nape of his neck. Even though he barely reached up to his chest, Anatole smiled, feeling beneath his palm how Haider’s heart raced, raced, as it always did whenever they touched.

The man couldn’t be subtle if he tried.

“Congratulations,” he murmured. “You’ve worked so hard, and I wish I could have made it. I just -”

“Don’t like making promises you can’t keep.” Haider finished for him, pulling back to tuck a strand of golden hair behind Anatole’s ear. A few important diplomatic visits had timed themselves squarely into Anatole’s schedule just as Haider had hosted a party to celebrate his restaurant’s new wing. “And that’s a good thing, Nana.”

“Well,” Anatole stepped back with a smile full of promises that meant as hell to keep. “I have something for you instead.”

When he unwrapped the painting from its silk casing, emblazoned with the imprint of the auction house from where Nana had found it, Haider’s breath caught, his heart raced, his eyes stung with tears.

“Nana, you didn’t.”

“I did.”

“You-“ Haider was lost for words, his eyes the size of coins as he looked over the painting, again and again.

Simple and lovely- Kites In the Summer Sky­- the colors vivid enough to leap off the canvas, gentle enough to rest around the viewer like an embrace. “Provenance is pretty solid, I-“

“I know.” Haider whispered, stopping shy of touching the signature inked in black at the corner of the canvas. Thasveer Wazim.

“It’s Vaapa’s. I’d know it anywhere.”

Haider saw the slow strokes of his father’s brush, the brilliant blue of the sky over the house that now lay empty. If he listened, he thought he could hear the slow hum of his voice, the cheerful “Zainu! Haidi! Come over here!”

Holding Vaapa’s paintings always felt like coming home.

Finding them, a feat of rare effort.

“You must’ve gone to so much trouble.”

Anatole shook his head, fondly.  “Some effort yes, but no trouble.”

Haider straightened, tore his eyes away from the painting to look at Nana instead. He thought that he’d been certain about where they stood with each other- fleeting engagements, fond entanglements, but this, but this-

He reached out to take Anatole’s hand, trusting his answer before he could even voice his question. “Why, Nana?”

Anatole cupped Haider’s cheek in his palm, reached up on tiptoe to press a kiss to his beard. “Why do you think, Haidi?”

[vampiresuns]

Interlude 1: Do Not Stand Over My Grave And Weep, Part 2

⟡ PART 2: FRIENDS ARE THE FAMILY YOU CHOOSE ⟡

2.2k words. In which Anatole’s friends start uncovering the mystery of his death and sudden reappearance. 

CW: Death and discussions of it.

What to catch up with Anatole’s Apprentice series? You can do that here.

He had met him at University. He had been his friend since he was 18 years old. Anatole and Medea had been Leonore’s first lasting friends, the first people who outside of his family, had taught him permanence was not entrapment. They had filled his life with growth and laughter; he had suffered their woes, he had celebrated their triumphs, he had followed them into Vesuvia despite his original wish to travel the world. 

He still travelled, but he always came back to them. Medea and Anatole weren’t just friends: they were family now. When Leonore closed his eyes he could see them holding hands and jumping into the water one summer evening in Prakra. He could see Medea using his thigh as a pillow under a tree. He could see Anatole dancing. He could see Medea and Anatole dressed to the nines for their new Court jobs. 

He would know them anywhere. He would know them by the way their steps sounded alone.

It took Leonore some moments to remember where he was, Octavia gently nudging him. Sabine, who he didn’t realise had gone, announced themselves again, saying they had lost Anatole’s doppelgänger in the crowd. 

Only it hadn’t been a doppelgänger. Leonore knew his best friend, he knew Anatole when he saw him. 

“No,” he said at last. “No, that’s him. That’s him, Octavia. That was him, and I need to find him.” 

“Leonore, wait! Anatole’s dead.” 

They began bickering about it, Octavia trying to stop Leonore from head diving into a wild goose chase, not realising Selasi, the Baker, was listening to them. 

“Excuse me, forgive me for overhearing, but are you talking about Anatole Radošević? The magician from Moonstone and Jasmine?” 

“Yes! His aunt owned that shop,” Leonore said, jumping to talk to Selasi, who inspected him with a careful eye. 

“I don’t know what prank you’re playing, but he’s alive as can be. I opened a little after the plague subsided and he and Asra have been getting bread from me for three years, almost. They’re attached at the hip, so if you know Asra—“ 

Leonore leaped to shake his hand. “I do know, Asra! Thank you, thank you so much.” 

Selasi tried to tell him Asra wasn’t around, that he was on a journey, but that he could tell him where to find Anatole if he promised he was a friend, but Leonore sprinted towards the shop without letting him finish. Sabine set off to follow Leonore as Octavia called to both of them, which left her standing alone with Selasi. She made some apologies, and Selasi told her not to worry. 

“Where did you say you knew him?”

“Leonore went to University with him,” she said, thinking the least she could do was to assure the man they were Anatole’s friends, not some random people with weird motivations. “I know him through his cousin.”

The baker hummed. “I didn’t know Anatole had any family besides his late Aunt and Asra.”

Something about the way he said it, the casual certainty of it, gave Octavia a chill. She thanked him, and tried to catch up with Sabine and Leonore, not wanting to say anything Selasi might not know. She risked him stopping them, or worse, telling Anatole, which she didn’t think would be a good idea. Octavia just had a bad feeling about it: she didn’t expect people to just know who Anatole was, or had been, that could be conceited. Anatole himself hated being anticipated by his job, wanting to have the opportunity to present himself and do the best he could do. 

Yet from there to the sureness Selasi had had when he said he didn’t know Anatole had any family besides Paris and Asra? It was weird. The Radošević-Cassano weren’t meant to be separated; if Octavia knew anything about them from Milenko, it was that they were very close knit. The only people in their families that Octavia could think of as not being regarded ever, were Matilda and Krešmir, Vlad’s and Valerius’ late parents, who hadn’t even raised the siblings. All she knew about them was that they were neglectful and Matilda had the idle ennui of someone who was too used to having everything, and was used to using cruelty for fun. 

Milenko had only talked about them a couple of times, and she had never heard the Consul even mention them, let alone Vlad, Anatole’s father. One way or another, the Cassano didn’t detach themselves from their family, nor did the Radošević, and Anatole had only ever been extremely proud of the people who had raised him. That had been their way since the days of Cassano Arianamenzi, the first of them, and she could testify that legacy had not washed away with time. If anything, it had become stronger. So why would Anatole not speak of it?

Unless he didn’t remember them. She had read about such a thing once, doing research for one of her most early plays. A shiver went down her back, making her hug her arms around herself and walk faster.

When Octavia reached the Moonstone Leonore and Sabine were talking to a tall man who seemed to guard the shop. None of them had seen him before, but he seemed to know them; he called them ‘people from before’. 

“You used to give Anatole clementines, which he doesn’t like—” he said. He was tall, covered in a cloak, and had moss green eyes, though they were barely visible.

“He says they taste fake,” Leonore completed.

“So he gave them to me, before— it doesn’t matter. You won’t find him here.”

The only thing stranger than the stranger was that none of them could remember him as they tried to piece their afternoon together. However, Octavia had heard Selasi say Anatole was occupied in the Palace, and perhaps they could try their luck there. 

“Then let’s go,” Leonore said, already standing up. “Maybe Medea knows something we don’t.”

Medea Pryce was the daughter of two archaeologists and the granddaughter of another one. Both her father’s and her mother’s family had settled in Vesuvia some generations ago because its cultural diversity and rich history was good for the archaeological craft. Anatole wasn’t the first Radošević-Cassano she had met — her Grandmother was acquainted with Bastiste Cassano, one of the Cassano elders, and thus with Consul Valerius, whom Batiste called her spoiled grandnephew. Medea’s parents, on the other hand, were acquainted with Atanasie Radošević and Aurora Tesfaye, uncle and mother of Anatole’s cousin Milenko. 

So when she met him at University, which she had begun in Prakra, just as he had done, the surname called to her immediately. Discovering they would course the exact same program, even if they had different aspirations and goals, another pleasant surprise. It would be nice to have someone to know, as Medea liked making friends.

What a friend she had made of him and Leonore, who shared housing with them. Anatole was one of those people who had the energy of a handsome stranger one shared enlightening conversation with, yet then never saw again. Debonair and hopeful, he was passionate and inspiring, a devoted friend and nothing if not extraordinary. He had his shortcomings, like everyone, but that wasn’t the way one measured their friends. 

Seasons came and time passed. They both studied and apprenticed in Balkovia for six months, and then they moved on into Vesuvia, Leonore following them, to their surprise. They laughed and hurt, they fell in love with their own people, they held each other, and Medea and Anatole drafted their plans for the future. It would be a great future, they were sure of it. Anatole’s self-introductory speech for the Vesuvian Court was a gem, Medea believed it so. They liked to fantasise about one day becoming Consul and Head of Staff, with all the things they thought they could help with, working together for the people of their City. 

No matter the crashes and reality checks, the hardships or how many times Medea had seen Anatole stand up to the Count and the new Courtiers, they held hands through it and continued onwards: The World and it’s calling of completion met its perfect match in Anatole’s Ace of Swords coloured Strength.

Then the Plague came and Anatole died, and Medea was left with all their plans, and no one to implement them with. 

After his death, things only got worse. She could tell something was going on with the Consul, but she wasn’t close enough to him to know what. She was somewhat closer to Councilwoman Cassiopeia, but she didn’t seem to know what was going on with her cousin either. The Courtiers hadn’t done anything of value for the City in three years, and all that Valerius ever seemed to do was to keep it afloat. The Court was destroyed, and with the Countess as lost as they all were, Medea didn’t know where they would end.

When she heard the Countess had found a new advisor she was thrilled. Fresh air was what the Court needed, and by the first weeks of this advisor around the Countess, it was clear they were doing her good, even if she had heard the advisor had had a rocky introduction with the Court. It seemed like it, because she knew from first hand experience that the Consul had come in furious to his office, refusing to speak to anyone, except to Cassiopeia, whom Medea was sure forced him to speak rather than him wilfully giving her any information.

He had only said something about something in poor taste, and how had he let the Countess know he would not tolerate it, but he didn’t say anything else. 

Her turn to meet the advisor came the next morning. It happened by accident, when she was delivering some documents to the Council of Vesuvia. Meet was a lax word for it, ‘seeing’ him, was much more appropiate: with his light golden blond hair, and bespoke clothes. The same unmistakable black eyes and the scar across the bridge of his nose. The same stride, the same height, the same face, the same looks. 

Her friend, her own dearest Aelius Anatole had walked into the Consul’s office seeking for an explanation about the way he had been received in Court. From there on, the morning was mayhem, absolute mayhem, and only now that Medea was sitting alone she could finally process it. 

“Anatole” had introduced himself fully, his name the right name, but the Consul wouldn’t hear it, immediately throwing himself at the throat of the “second-rate witch” for daring to use that name. Anatole continued to insist that was his name. The more the argument extended, it was clear to everyone involved that that was Anatole, even to the headstrong Consul — his panicked eyes gave him away.

Medea knew her friend, her friend had always had a presence, even if he wasn’t always aware of it. He still had it, he still stood in the same way the Consul did, he still turned his eyebrows in the same way, and the way he spoke. 

What he spoke of, too. 

The breaking point came when the Consul grabbed him from the shoulders, demanding to know what he wanted from him. Then, Medea saw him do something he hadn’t done in years: she heard the Consul speak Balkovian in public. Medea’s grasp with the language was enough to know he asked two things, two crucial things, that anyone who wasn’t Anatole couldn’t answer. 

Anatole answered the first one, something about a sword’s name, in his perfectly native Balkovian, looking pale and sickly-greenish. Cassiopeia tried to interject, but the Consul wouldn’t listen to anyone. Then the Consul asked his second question, something about ‘what was the tree’, or ‘what was the name of the tree’, and nothing else. Medea wasn’t sure. 

Anatole replied both of the questions: His first reply being ‘grapevine’, followed by a choked up ‘cult of Dionysus’; the second reply was ‘a beech tree’, looking like he was about to vomit after the words left his mouth. 

“Valeriy?” He said, as the Consul looked at him in horror, still holding him by the shoulders. “I think I’m going to pass out.”

Anatole did pass out, and the Consul, blushing cherry red as he realised the whole scene had been in front of half the Court office at his care, yelled at them to know what the hell were they doing, if not call for someone to take this boy to a bed. After it, the Consul stormed off, Cassiopeia power-walking behind him as she demanded an explanation from her cousin, an explanation the Consul refused to give, waving dismissively at her.

“Don’t you wave like that at me, Valeriy, unlike you, I know my own damn nephew when I see him.”

“Don’t call me that here.”

“Valeriy Radošević, I will call you however I damn please! Come back here!”

Medea didn’t stay to watch the rest. The Court was in unrest, it was so much that it had stirred the four other weirdos into watching and making the oddest commentary for anyone to hear. Medea didn’t need an in with them to know they knew something they all didn’t, and simply thought of the Court Staff too inconsequential for them to spare them half a thought.  

As if possessed by a thunderbolt, Medea stood up from where she was sitting as she ruminated. She needed answers, and she needed to talk about this to someone. She had an idea: if anyone she was close enough knew a considerable amount of death and ghosts, it was Amparo Cassano, but first she needed to talk to Leonore. They had supported each other in these 4 years Anatole had been dead, or presumed as much. Anything she did, it would be with Leonore. 

As she turned around after grabbing her coat, Leonore was calling her name. 

“Sabine is waiting for us at our place, they wanted to ask some questions first so I ran here. Octavia is trying to find Amparo, or anyone really. There’s something I need to tell you.”

“Good,” she said, as she grabbed his arm and began walking out of the Palace, “so do I, but not here. The Courtiers are around, and they cannot be trusted.”

[into-the-daniverse]

Smash or Pass, you know the goods

Anatole— Alec says smash (platonic) as a joke, but she hasn’t even finished it before Leon shoves her aside and sits on Nana’s lap, sticking his tongue out in her general direction

Amparo— Camia says smash but respectfully, she would like to take Amparo out for dinner and make an evening out of it

Milenko— Alec says smash for real and would very much like to get them banned from some more bars, or an alternatively less heart-racing date would be to rate each other’s poetry

Also, for fun: Valeriy— Jamil says smash and will make good on that, picking him up bridal style to leave the room

[froyofam]

tfw u go to the kitchen to look for a snack and the snack comes to you

(Anatole, who is @sunrisenfool‘s, and August, who is mine, are the crackship that blossomed into uwus and I love them a lot.)

[sunsetsor]

ASTAERIA STARK The Snow Dragon ”We are only human, and the gods have fashioned us for love. That is our great glory, and our great tragedy.” LUCERYS I TARGARYEN The Golden Dragon ”We are only human, and the gods have fashioned us for love. That is our great glory, and our great tragedy.” AELIUS ANATOLE TYRELL The Master of Whispers “Power is a curious thing, my lord… Power resides where men believe it resides. It’s a trick, a shadow on the wall. And, a very small man can cast a very large shadow” DEE TYRELL The Rose “The rose of Highgarden bloomed only for her queen” VALERIUS RAMBTON The Hand of the King “What the King dreams, the Hand builds” AARUSHI The Red Priestess “The fire wasn’t just around her, it was inside her, crackling in her voice and blazing in her eyes” The King’s Landing side of @starryskylullaby‘s asoiaf au! Featuring: Starry’s apprentice Esther as Queen Asteria, wife to Lucerys and rider to her dragon, Nightfyre. @chickie-dee‘s apprentice Dee as Dee Tyrell, one of Esther’s lady-in-waiting. @sunrisenfool‘s apprentice Anatole as Aelius Anatole Tyrell, Dee’s cousin and master of whispers for King Lucerys. and finally @3rrol‘s apprentice Errol as Aarushi, the red priestess from Myr.